


To Maxwell fucking Roth.

by Eriakit



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Could Be Canon, Drunken Confessions, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mourning, Sort Of, Tragedy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 20:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14880488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eriakit/pseuds/Eriakit
Summary: He had another message to deliver.He wished he hadn’t delivered any of them.





	To Maxwell fucking Roth.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragomir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/gifts).



> You can blame Drago for this, entirely.

 

The water splattered off the edges of the train, soaking Lewis even more as he wandered down the line of it, looking for light. There. A few cars further down. He raised the bottle to his lips again, choking down the burn of the foul rotgut - all he could find in large enough amounts. Maxwell’s collection had burnt down with - with the theatre. With _him_.

Lewis choked on his liquor, gagging, and leaned against the train to let the sobs shake through him for a moment before gasping, letting the cold rain clear his head as he marched down the line of the train to the lit window. He had another message to deliver.

He wished he hadn’t delivered any of them.The door to the train car opened as he arrived - he supposed he had made a lot of noise, bouncing off the metal walls like that. And there, framed in the light of the car, was just the man he _loathed_ to see.

“Jacob _fucking_ Frye,” he slurred, stumbling forward between the lit car and the one he had just passed. The man just stood there, silent, face shadowed from the light burning behind him. He just _stood there_ . If only he’d reacted so little, before. Any number of times _before._

“Shoulda never come here,” Lewis stated sadly. He inhaled shakily and brought the bottle up again, whining through his nose at the horrid taste and chugging faster. He spat when he let the empty bottle fall to the ground. “Should _never_ come here. Shoulda tossed Max’s little notes to you in the Thames, shoulda told him you weren’t interested.” His voice got louder with every word as he stepped closer and closer to the door. “Shouldn’t‘ve _ever_ brought that last one. He might still be alive, if only I’d just done a _shit_ job for once.”

Finally, Frye spoke. If Lewis had been in a kinder frame of mind, he might have thought the boy sounded as wrecked as he did. But fuck that - the little shit didn’t _deserve_ to mourn. “Yeah. If only.”

Lewis snarled and reached up, yanking the little pipsqueak out of the car by the ankle. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he shouldn’t have been able to do that, not to this man, but he had. And now there he was, the bloody, blessed Frye boy, on his back in the mud.

“You _ruined him!”_ Lewis hadn’t intended to yell that. Hadn’t intended to say it at all, but _oh,_ the truth of it. “He was fine before you came along, you little shit! He was _fine!_ And then you, and your fucking pretty boy face, hopping all around his city - he was _fine_ , and you _ruined him!”_ He gave the prone figure in front of him a swift kick to the ribs, his aim still good enough even with the booze to get a solid hit in before Frye could roll to his feet.

Lewis charged him, then, slamming the smaller man against the side of the train car. “You fucking _killed him!”_

“I _did.”_

Lewis stopped, whatever else he’d been about to scream clogged up in his throat with the rotgut. The boy _did_ sound as wrecked as he did. He should. He should regret it, regret all of it, regret being _alive_ , for the crime of killing Maxwell Roth, king of the London Underground.

But. But did he, really? He’d sunk a blade into Maxwell’s throat. But he hadn’t set the stage. That had been all Max, hadn’t it?

Lewis wasn’t sure when his hands had gone from shoving Frye into the train to clinging to his shoulders. Or when Frye’s hands had come up to brace his arms. But he noticed it, now, and noticed Frye’s eyes - as red as his own, as lost and broken as he felt, his mouth open and trembling on sobs as shittily held back as Lewis’ were.

“You little _shit,”_ Lewis sobbed, and Frye sobbed right along with him. “You loved him, too.”

Frye made as if to shake his head and Lewis tugged him forward just enough to slam his head into the wall of the train. Lewis growled out the rest. “No, don’t you fucking lie to me. Not tonight. He fucking loved _you_ , Jacob Frye. He ruined himself for you. He ruined his _work_ for you.”

Lewis shoved off of the boy, suddenly needing to be _gone_ from here. “I hope to fucking God it was fucking worth it, boy,” he spat, before turning back the way he had come. He half-expected a bullet in his skull as he made his way down the line, but it never came.

The next bar he found had liquor good enough to toast Maxwell. It was something, at least. “To Maxwell _fucking_ Roth.”

He hoped he and the boy both woke up the next morning, but if not, ah well.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry it hurt me too.


End file.
